


My Troubles Will Be Few

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Free As A Bird [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A perilous situation brings further revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Troubles Will Be Few

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea this series would be so well received, so this is for everyone who has been enjoying it, with my particular gratitude to [ComeHitherAshes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes), [etoiledemer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/etoiledemer), and [evilmaniclaugh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh) for their ~~prodding~~ support and encouragement (:

The sounds of their pursuers were growing louder, drawing ever closer, but the flight of the four Musketeers was brought to an abrupt halt by the sudden disappearance of the ground in front of them. They had fled right to the lip of a precipice, the rocky earth dropping at a steep angle into a ravine, a deep gash carved into the landscape.

It was far too wide to jump, even had they been on horseback, and a descent would be slow, would leave them exposed. There seemed to be no other option than to stand their ground, and while none of them ever baulked from a fight, not only were they were vastly outnumbered, but under instruction from Treville not to kill every man when there was still information to be gathered.

Aramis caught Athos’s gaze, one last potential means of escape surfacing in his desperate mind.

“Do you think you could…?”

Athos looked out across the chasm, judging the distance, keenly aware of what Aramis was thinking. It was a solution he had already considered, and then instantly dismissed. When he turned back to Aramis his eyes held regret and apology.

“There is not enough time. I cannot carry all three of you at once.” He didn’t need to add that he had no intention of leaving any of them behind.

“What…?” D’Artagnan was watching them restlessly, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to make whatever move was decided upon even as he struggled to make sense of their exchange.

It was Porthos who sprang into action. Turing to Athos, he began unfastening the buttons of his doublet. “You get Aramis and d’Artagnan to safety. I’ll hold ’em off.”

“No.” Athos placed his hand over Porthos’s, halting its progression down the line of buttons. “I won’t leave you here. We’ll stay and fight together.”

Porthos was about to argue further when d’Artagnan cut in, his irrepressible self-confidence spurring him on as the cries of the men ricocheted off the trees around them.

“You won’t have to carry us all.” Even as he spoke, his fingers were scrabbling to unfasten his own doublet, and he had everyone’s attention as he shrugged it off, quickly pulling his shirt over his head as soon as his arms were free. The linen bindings that crisscrossed his chest, now revealed, were so familiar and yet such a surprise that the others could only watch in stunned shock as d’Artagnan tugged them loose and shook free a pair of wings, their glossy feathers a rich, deep brown so dark so as to appear almost black until they caught the sun and shimmered in the light.

D’Artagnan could feel the gazes of all three of his friends, but it was Athos upon whom his own eyes were fixed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in an uncharacteristic show of apprehension.

Astonished by this unexpected revelation, Athos could do nothing but stare for a moment until the soldier in him resurfaced and the urgency of the situation eclipsed all else.

“Take Aramis and go.” His businesslike tone belied the true feelings that the sight of his young friend had stirred inside him, and he focused instead on finishing the job Porthos had started on his buttons.

There was a flurry of feathers beside them, Porthos watching their departure in mute wonder until Athos handed him his doublet and shirt. Aware that they were out of time, Athos drew his main gauche and sliced through the linen swaddled around his chest, letting the slashed strips fall to the ground and barely noticing when the blade nicked his skin.

Pulling Porthos against his chest, Athos wrapped his arms securely around his ribs and pushed them out into empty space.

A volley of pistol shots split the air behind them – _above_ them – and echoed off the craggy walls of the ravine, but Porthos barely heard them over the sound of the wind rushing past his ears. His heart in his throat and the breath torn from his lungs, he was certain that nothing would stop their fall, that they would plummet to the ground, to their deaths.

If that was to be his fate, so be it. But there was still a chance for Athos.

Porthos wrenched at Athos’s arms, tried to free himself from their grasp only for Athos to tighten his hold, clasp him more firmly against his chest.

“I’m too heavy for ya,” Porthos growled, the wind catching his words and scattering them. Even if Athos didn’t hear, he understood what Porthos was trying to do.

“No.” Athos ducked his head, put his lips to Porthos’s ear. “Just be still.”

If Porthos had been able to catch his breath, he would have argued, but there was one fact that still held true, one immutable certainty: he trusted Athos with his life.

Porthos stilled, felt Athos hook his feet around his ankles, closed his eyes and wondered whether there really was anyone listening to his silent prayer.

Then, with a jolt, they caught an updraft and they were no longer falling. They were _soaring_.

Slowly, Porthos gathered the courage to open his eyes again, and gasped aloud at sight that greeted him. The ground was now slipping along beneath them, a rolling patchwork of greens and browns in every hue. In the distance, the sun glinted off the surface of water, glittering white and blue. Now that it wasn’t hurtling toward him, Porthos could appreciate the beauty of a land he usually only ever saw from foot or atop a horse. This new, unique perspective left him speechless.

Turning his head to the side, he saw the curve of Athos’s wing as it swept a smooth arc through the air. His previous panic now forgotten, Porthos laughed with unbridled joy, his senses overwhelmed by the feeling of being airborne, the thrill of flight. The soft huff of Athos’s own laugh at his ear had Porthos wishing he could see his face, see his smile, but it was enough that they were sharing this. How Athos had deprived himself of such pleasure for so long, Porthos couldn’t imagine.

Ahead of them, d’Artagnan, with Aramis, was gently banking to the right, turning them toward Paris, and Athos fell in behind him. Neither man would be able to remain aloft much longer, not with the additional weight of their passengers, and they soon began a descent.

As his feet returned to the ground, Porthos was greeted by Aramis’s wide grin – the mirror image of his own.

“That was…” He struggled to find an adequate word. How could anybody express just how incredible it felt to fly?

“Indescribable?” Aramis suggested, looking just as awestruck as Porthos felt.

Porthos laughed. “Yeah.”

D’Artagnan, finally afforded his first true glimpse of Athos, was staring in wide-eyed wonder, certain that he would never see the day when he stopped being surprised by this man. To discover they had this in common was unexpected, but seemed somehow fated.

It was Aramis, turning to d’Artagnan with the intention of thanking him, who caught the moment his smile faltered, his brows drawing together in a frown.

“You’re hurt.”

Aramis and Porthos both spun, following d'Artagnan's gaze, concern dampening their delight. A handful of the tawny feathers of Athos’s right wing were ruffled, painted scarlet with blood, and Aramis was instantly at his side.

“It’s nothing,” Athos insisted in spite of the dull ache making itself known now the thrill of the flight was fading from his veins. One of their pursuers must have possessed better aim than he had at first thought, although he hadn’t even felt the ball strike him at the time and it was not one of the more severe wounds he had ever received. “A scratch.”

But Aramis persisted, and Athos knew better than to try to brush off his concern. He allowed himself to be steered to a fallen tree, which was quickly put to use as a makeshift seat, and submitted to Aramis’s examination. Declaring the necessity of a couple of stitches, he opened his surgeon’s kit and set to work before the sun dipped any lower toward the horizon.

The mutual decision was made to set up camp for the night. Now they had successfully evaded their pursuers, there was no need to hurry on, and they would easily reach Paris before noon if they set off at first light. And neither Athos nor d’Artagnan could deny themselves the opportunity to rest awhile. So, while Aramis tended to Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan busied themselves building a fire, and it wasn’t long before they were sat around dancing flames as the trees around them faded into shadows.

It was Athos who voiced the thought that was on the minds of all three of the elder men.

“This is a surprise, d’Artagnan.”

“I could say the same. I had no idea.” His abiding astonishment was still evident in both his expression and his voice. He turned curious eyes on Aramis and Porthos. “But you both knew?”

He didn’t require their confirmation. It would have been more of a surprise to find Aramis and Porthos were oblivious, considering how close the three men were.

“But how is it that you…” Porthos squinted at d’Artagnan thoughtfully, contemplating everything he knew about the nature of wings. “I mean, you ain’t…”

“A nobleman? No. It’s rare amongst commoners, but not unheard of.” A nostalgic smile crept across his face. “Apparently, I inherited them from my great _grand-papa_.”

This caught Aramis’s interest, but there was a more pressing question at the forefront of his mind. “That makes it an even more unique gift. Why do you keep them hidden?”

“I’m a Musketeer,” d’Artagnan replied, as if it were obvious.

“’E means before you joined the regiment.” Porthos was just as intrigued. To his mind, d’Artagnan should have been proud of so rare a trait, but it was a grim frown that settled upon the young man’s features.

“It is one thing for a duke or a count to have wings, quite another for a farm boy from Gascony.”

From the matching looks of incomprehension fixed upon him, d’Artagnan could see they didn’t understand. “A commoner shouldn’t be afforded such a gift,” he explained, hitching one shoulder in a resigned shrug. “Most people saw them as a mark of the devil.”

“No.” Aramis shook his head, vehement. “They could never be that.”

The smile returned to d’Artagnan’s lips, warmed by Aramis’s conviction. “Maybe so, but I learnt to keep them hidden so as not to make my family the subject of people’s prejudice. We couldn’t make a living if we were ostracised.”

Porthos gave a disgusted snort, the sound perfectly expressing the injustice of such treatment. No stranger to discrimination, he nevertheless struggled to understand how such hatred could be directed toward something so inherently beautiful.

“’S not right,” he growled. No one could argue with that sentiment, but they all knew it was nigh on impossible to change such ingrained beliefs and superstitions.

“But what about you?” d’Artagnan asked of Athos. “You can’t have encountered that same prejudice?”

It would have been easy for Athos to justify his choice to conceal his wings with the excuse that they were not a trait deemed appropriate for one of the king’s soldiers, but d’Artagnan deserved better than that, deserved the truth.

“I didn’t, not when I was a boy. My brother and I, we would spend hours every day flying in the grounds.”

Athos had already shared these memories with Aramis and Porthos, and they now remained silent, allowing him to take d’Artagnan into his confidence. D’Artagnan regarded him with unblinking eyes, unaccustomed to such candour from his typically reticent mentor. Not daring to interrupt, he instead gave Athos a small nod of encouragement.

“When I married, it seemed everything my wings symbolised – the freedom and love they promised – had been granted me.” Athos’s gaze was fixed on the fire, as if he could see those memories in the flickering flames. After a moment’s silence, he drew in a deep breath, expelled it on a sigh. “But after my brother died at the hand of my wife I could no longer bear to remain at La Fère, and they became just another reminder of everything I had lost.”

He didn’t add that he felt himself undeserving of finding that same love and happiness again. He didn’t need to.

Porthos nudged Athos’s thigh with his knee, stirring him from his gloomy thoughts before they dragged him too deep, and waited until Athos lifted his gaze from the fire. There was no mistaking the message written in Porthos’s earnest expression, the resolute devotion. Athos acknowledged his momentary lapse into the melancholy he need no longer feel with an apologetic smile, that diffident quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“But now I have found so much more.”

Porthos’s responding grunt was one of contented agreement, his grin wide and bright.

“As have we all,” Aramis added, turning to include d’Artagnan in that assertion, finding a bashful but elated smile on his young friend’s face as d’Artagnan realised just how true that statement was, and just how deeply it ran within his own heart.

Once the sun had finally disappeared, the temperature began a rapid decline, the day’s warmth chasing swiftly after the light and leaving their small fire as the only source of heat. It didn’t quite drop to the raw bite of winter, but both Athos and d’Artagnan felt the night’s chill drift across their bare skin and, reluctant to tuck back into the confines of their doublets, both men instead drew their wings a little closer around their bodies, warding off the cold air.

The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by either Aramis or Porthos.

“Do that thing with ’is shirt again,” Porthos said, tossing the garment at Aramis. Aramis caught it deftly with a bright grin of comprehension, but looked to Athos for permission.

“Only if you do not mind me taking my knife to another of your shirts.”

“Please.” Athos gave a nod of consent. There had been no reason for him to wear the shirt Aramis had previously adapted to accommodate his wings, but he now sorely missed its ingenious design. “I can always buy another shirt.”

It didn’t take long for Aramis to make the necessary adjustments, a hastier, less meticulous job this time. But Athos cared little about the lack of fine needlework; it was the consideration for his comfort that left him humbled. Aramis helped him pull it on, mindful his wound, then turned to d’Artagnan with an eyebrow arched, silently offering his services.

The quick flash of an impressed grin, then d’Artagnan passed his own shirt across to Aramis.

Both men now suitably clothed for the night, they each took it in turn to keep watch, Athos and d’Artagnan enjoying the liberty this brief detour had afforded them, and all managing a little sleep before the birds began to herald the approach of dawn. All too soon, they set off once more on their journey back to Paris.

A few miles outside the city, they stopped to allow Athos and d’Artagnan to once again conceal their wings beneath their clothing, but the reluctance with which d’Artagnan tugged the linen strip from his belt was obvious. He spread his wings to their full span, the iridescent feathers gleaming in the shafts of sunlight that fell through the branches above them, before drawing them in again with a sigh and beginning the awkward task of rebinding them.

Athos gently took the cloth from his fingers, began wrapping it for him without a word. When he was finished, the ends secured, he clasped d’Artagnan’s shoulder in sympathy and encouragement.

“This is necessary for now, d’Artagnan,” he said softly. “But it will not always be this way.”

D’Artagnan met his gaze in tentative hope. Perhaps there _would_ come a time when they would no longer have to hide, but what dispelled the cloud over his heavy heart was the easy acceptance of his friends; that was what mattered most.

As d’Artagnan shrugged back into his doublet, Athos considered the dilemma he had left himself facing.

“I’m afraid, in my haste, I cut mine off.” It had been far more important to get himself and Porthos to safety than worry about preserving his bindings. Porthos gave him a look of grim recollection, but Aramis was smiling.

“Then, my friend, allow me to come to your aid.” With a flourish, he pulled two lengths of bandages from his surgeon’s kit. They were shorter and less robust than the linen Athos typically used, but they would do the job. He held out a grateful hand that Aramis ignored, instead stepping closer to Athos and unwinding the bandages himself.

“Let me,” he said, and Athos drew in his wings and raised his arms with a nod of blessing. Aramis gently began wrapping the fabric around Athos’s wings and chest, taking care not to put any pressure on his wound, his expression growing increasingly more downcast as he, too, regretted its necessity. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

They set off toward Paris in companionable silence, each man lost in his own thoughts, until Porthos fell into step beside Athos.

“C’n we do that again sometime?”

Looking at him askance, Athos arched one eyebrow. “Leap off a cliff?”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “I was thinkin’ more just the flyin’ part.”

A smile rose on Athos’s lips, brightening his eyes as he raised his gaze to the azure sky.

“Yes. We shall definitely do that again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is anyone else now reimagining that first meeting between d'Artagnan and Constance?
> 
> The title is taken from Supertramp's 'Free as a Bird'.


End file.
